Treachery in the Yard tp-1

by Adimchinma Ibe

  “Her death meant only one thing. She was right about the driver of the white Peugeot 305 being the bomber.” I pulled out a St. Morris and lit it.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “She saw the bomber. And was very public about it. She was the only one who can positively identify the bomber. This was not a burglary where someone was accidentally killed. They came for her.”

  The case was getting complicated. I had a hunch a lot of what had happened was tied in with Thompson, and perhaps Osamu. Finding Thompson was critical, and his bail form possibly had clues. It was so much nicer when it was just politicians trying to kill each other. It was a long, thoughtful drive back to headquarters.

  A half an hour later, back at headquarters, I asked for Thompson’s bail form. But the desk sergeant had other ideas about the form when I approached him. He was old enough to be my father. In a condescending way he said, simply, “You might want to clear this with Chief. Howell Osamu is powerful.”

  “Definitely. He is the best ass-crack lawyer around. Any ass that needs a lawyer takes a crack at him.”

  “Just because you are a detective does not mean I have to laugh at your bad jokes.” He sounded a lot like my father.

  “Sergeant, I don’t have to clear anything with Chief.”

  “Really? I love it when you talk like that. Gives me a lot of exciting yelling to look forward to.”

  “Are you refusing to give me the bail form?”

  “You could put the entire department in trouble.”

  “You have a problem with my investigation style?”

  “Heavens no.”

  “Good. The bail form, then.”

  “Oh yes, the bail form. One minute. Mr. Detective.” He slowly-very slowly-walked to a row of old wooden filing cabinets, and looked through the recent folders until he found one. He took the bail bond form from the folder and handed it to me, accompanied by a sarcastic grin and a raised eyebrow.

  There was no address for Thompson in the file-hardly a surprise. I would have to get the address off Osamu, his lawyer. I handed the file back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A few minutes later, I was parking outside Osamu’s law firm. It was a nice little hornet for the superdeluxe lawyer-a four-story modern office block. His office was the whole of the second floor, all of which was Osamu and Associates. His secretary looked up from her computer as I walked out of the elevator.

  “Nice dress,” I told her.

  She had a smile like Dracula except her teeth were not as sharp. I decided not to bother with the charm. “I am Detective Tamunoemi Peterside,” I said, showing her my badge. “I’m here to see Barrister Howell Osamu.”

  “One minute, please.” She was wearing a hands-free headphone/mike. Classy. You don’t usually see such things in Nigeria-they are expensive. She pressed a button on the intercom. “Sir, there’s a police detective here.”

  I waited. She listened. She looked up at me and smiled as pleasantly as she could manage. “I’m sorry, he’s busy. But you can fill out the visitor’s form and we can see when he’s free for today.”

  I smiled back, already moving around her toward the inner office, where Osamu was. “Excuse me, sir, you can’t go in there,” but I did.

  Barrister Osamu was not exactly hard at work. He sat with his feet up on his desk, watching television. He looked up with a scowl, not pleased to be interrupted with his important work. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Detective Tamunoemi Peterside, Homicide, State Police.”

  He sighed wearily and looked over my shoulder at his secretary, who followed me in. “Carol, you can go back to your desk. Detective Peterside here won’t need anything. He won’t stay long.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Carol closed the door and left us alone, after giving me a nasty look.

  Osamu turned his attention back to me. “Well?”

  “I have a few questions about Thompson, the young man you took on bail this morning.”

  “Make it snappy, I don’t have time to waste.”

  “I’m trying. Give me his address.”

  “His address is my office.” He looked at me more carefully. “My friend,” he finally said, “I assume you know the law if you are a police detective. Mr. Thompson is my client. There are limits to what I must tell you. But, if I knew his address, I would tell you that. However, his address is my office because I do not have any other address for him.”

  “I’m looking for a killer.”

  “Excellent, that is what you are supposed to do. May I ask who this killer might be?”

  “The gentleman you took on bail this morning. Mr. Thompson.”

  “I am not aware of a homicide charge against my client.”

  “There isn’t one, yet.”

  “You must know better than to barge into my office like this. Have you been a detective very long? Do you intend to remain a detective very long?”

  “I want Mr. Thompson for questioning in the murder of Mrs. Naomi Karibi. You may know her as the wife of Judge Karibi.”

  Finally, I had his real attention. He sat up straight. Well, it is an attention grabber for a lawyer to hear his client may have murdered a judge’s wife. “Karibi’s wife? What happened? When?”

  “She had her throat slashed. Half an hour ago.”

  But he was not rattled-he was worth his fees. “First, I do not know where Mr. Thompson is. I will attempt to contact him. I’ll see you next when you have a warrant. Until then, our conversation is over.”

  “Not so fast. Dr. Puene is your client, isn’t he?”

  I had to be sure but Osamu was evasive.

  “I have many clients.”

  “Just interested. I need you to produce Mr. Thompson for questioning, counselor.”

  Smart lawyers pick and chose their battles, like smart detectives. “It may take a bit of time to find him. Next week, Friday. It’s then that I expect Mr. Thompson will be available.”

  “Make him available, counselor. Here’s my card. I expect a call, and a lot sooner than next week.” I left him staring at my back.

  I had no hard proof that Thompson was Mrs. Karibi’s killer. My only rationale was based on what Judge Karibi’s gateman told me, which was not much evidence. Any jury worth its salt would throw the case out the door. Moreover, Osamu would know that.

  My case was further weakened by the fact that we didn’t have the driver of the white Peugeot 305. As long as he had not been apprehended, we had no case against Puene or anyone else. I had consid

  ered bringing in Puene for questioning. I had not rejected the idea. I just had not yet taken the next step.

  When I got back to headquarters, I reiterated my story to Chief. He was not willing to bring Dr. Puene in. He said it might have grave repercussions and he was not going out on a leg on this one without having hard evidence against Puene-namely, proof that Thompson killed Mrs. Karibi and that he was connected to the doctor. It was a waste of his time.

  I returned to my office.

  “What did Chief have to say?” Femi asked.

  I sat down heavily on my chair and stared at the folder before me absentmindedly. “He didn’t believe me.”

  “Perhaps if we had some proof,” Femi said.

  “We’ll have the proof,” I said, and got up. I left him wondering what I was up to.

  I looked for Sergeant Okoro, to see what he’d learned about the car, but he was out. I left a message for him to call me. Within ten minutes of my returning to my office, he walked in.

  “Didn’t know you were back, sir. I went across the street to make a personal phone call. My minutes were very low.”

  Sometimes it’s cheaper to use the commercial call center rather than your cell. I nodded. “Those GSM operators charge cutthroat rates. What did you get on the plate?”

  He brought out his notepad. “The car is registered to one Mr. Charles Sekibo. Mr. Sekibo is a retired schoolteacher, his wife a petty trader.” He flipped through his notepad. “They live at Pl
ot 131, Old GRA.” Such a feat would not have been possible a decade ago with the obsolete number plate system so he seemed pleased with himself.

  “Good work, as always, sergeant. Thanks.”

  Okoro nodded and left as quickly as he had come in.

  I looked at Femi. “Let’s pay Mr. Sekibo a visit.” I picked up my car keys, eager to leave our paperwork behind-Femi really had more of a taste for reports than I did. We left the building and went to my car. Femi slipped into the passenger’s side, pushing the water bottles to the footwell.

  It took about forty-five minutes to drive to Old GRA in the traffic. This part of Port Harcourt was known for traffic problems and bad roads. When we arrived, the Sekibos were not in their nice little suburban home. Their wards were of no help.

  As we left the building, a voice behind us said, “Can I help you, officer?”

  I turned and an old man peered at us from just inside of his door. He wanted to know why we were asking after Charles. He must have been watching us from his apartment.

  “His Peugeot was used in a bombing,” I informed him.

  “Angus must have been driving the Peugeot. The old man Charles is, well, old. He doesn’t drive anymore.”

  “Angus? Who’s he?” I asked, not quite understanding.

  “He has a son, Angus Sekibo. Twenty-nine-year-old university dropout. Still lives with his parents. He has no steady job. He has an Ibo girlfriend, Uloma; she works in a nightclub around Rumuola.”

  “This Uloma, know where we can find her?”

  “She lives at number 125 on Azikiwe Road. Few blocks away.”

  There was nothing more he could tell us, but at least our trip had not been a total waste.

  After thanking the kind old man we checked out the girlfriend. She lived in a one-room apartment on Azikiwe Road, in a two-story building some twenty years old. At the time it was built, concrete was in vogue, but now it looked old and out of place. Before questioning the girlfriend, I decided to get a heads-up this time around by seeing if her neighbors had seen Angus recently.

  A dog started barking as we walked up to an apartment below the girlfriend’s. A woman opened the door when we knocked: stout, older, the type who watched everything and everyone. Good witness material. She probably made notes on their behavior and kept them in a file cabinet. Her dog was small but its bark was loud and did not stop. I glared at it and it shut up. I showed the woman my badge; she looked us over. The dog stood behind her and looked at all of us. It may have had a loud bark but now it looked ready to hide under the nearest piece of furniture.

  I started with the girlfriend. My new witness was eager to provide information. “She’s home right now. The girl works nights and sleeps in the day. If she leaves the house during the daytime, it’s not for long. She has no friends and does not socialize a lot. But,”-her eyes gleamed now-“but there’s this man who visits her. Tall guy. He would not pass for handsome but his clothes are good. He polishes his shoes.”

  I admired her eye for detail. “Is he called Angus Sekibo?”

  “Don’t know his name. I just watch them, I don’t talk to them. They wouldn’t talk to me anyway. Who’d want to talk to them? I don’t like talking to my neighbors, I just watch them. Keep an eye on them. For my own safety, you understand.”

  I nodded. Neighborhood gossips were more useful than the neighbors who stayed behind closed doors. “Tall black male? Heavyset?”

  Her eyes gleamed. She felt very important. “That would be him.”

  “Has he been around today?” Femi asked.

  “No.”

  “Sure about that?”

  She sniffed. “I take my neighborhood seriously. I would know if he visits. I know when anyone walks by. Either I see them or Sammy does,” she said, nodding to the dog, which still stared at us like the stupid little animal it was. “When he comes, he never leaves until late. He plays loud music. Very arrogant man. Sammy hates him, don’t you Sammy?”

  “Thank you very much,” Femi said as I finished my notes.

  We were done with her, but she was not done with us.

  “What’s he up to?”

  I just smiled. “Police business.”

  She liked that. Made her feel important. She wanted more, but she wasn’t going to get it. I did not want to poison the well. Information should go only one way in an investigation-to me.

  No one answered the other two doors, but maybe one alert neighbor was enough. We went up the stairs and I knocked on the girlfriend’s wooden door. Seconds later, a slender young woman opened it.

  “Yes?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Uloma?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Detective Peterside, this is Detective Adegbola. State Police. Homicide.”

  Her whole reaction was to raise an eyebrow-just one. Maybe it was too early in the day for her. “You sure you’re at the right place?”

  “You know Angus Sekibo?”

  Both eyebrows froze. Good sign. “What’s wrong? Has anything happened to him?”

  “Nothing. Yet. If we get to him first. Your friend’s gotten himself in trouble with some very bad people. He helps us, we help him.”

  Her eyebrows became flat lines over her eyes. She thought it over. “Come in.” We walked past her into the modest, airless, single-room apartment. She sat on the bed, offered me a cane chair but did not offer Femi anything. She knew who had rank.

  I got out my pad. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Friday night, four days ago. He came to the club and told me he was going out of town on business.”

  “What business?”

  “You said he’s all right?”

  “No. I don’t know. What business is he in?”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He was injured in an explosion.”

  “Injured?”

  “Bleeding from the ear. Maybe other wounds. When he was last seen.”

  Those nice eyes grew wider. “Last seen?”

  “Running from an explosion. What business is he in?”

  She was shocked or at least appeared shocked. “I don’t see how that can be,” she said slowly, as if she did not believe it herself, and was trotting out the words on a trial run to see if we believed it.

  I was getting the impression she would not tell me what business he was in-or perhaps she did not know. “Does he have a gun? Weapons? Explosives?”

  “No. No. Why would he? We’ve been together three years. No.”

  “You were asked what business he’s in,” Femi said, trying to sound tough.

  She sighed. “He’s a businessman. He invests.”

  “In what?” I asked.

  “In anything that brings him money. He does not talk about it much, so I don’t ask. Trade secrets, he says.”

  Time to pressure her. “We’re wasting time. His time. He’s in trouble. We don’t know exactly what he did but he was at the scene and it does not look good. Some people want him dead. Where is he? Tell me or I’ll take you in.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Njemanze Plot 22. He rented it just last week.”

  Njemanze was expensive. Was he already spending the money he had earned yesterday? I had what I wanted, unless she’d fed us a line. We got up to leave.

  “Please don’t hurt him,” she said, hands clasped in front of her.

  “You’ve just helped him,” was all I told her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It did not take long to drive to Njemanze, near Elechi Beach.

  Angus Sekibo’s bungalow was dead quiet. I decided not to bother with niceties like a warrant. A credit card in the door slipped the lock, and we went in. It was dark inside. Dark and quiet. Until I heard a scraping sound, coming from what was probably a bedroom. The doorway was open; a faint light shone from inside. I took my pistol from its holster as we approached. When we got to the open doorway, a tall, heavy man lunged at us from inside the room. He had a bandage around his ear. Our boy. He tried to grab my gun but ne
ver got close because I kicked him in the crotch.

  Kicking an attacking suspect in the crotch is basic police technique all over the world.

  He went down and Femi was on top of him as he hit the floor, rapping his gun across the back of the man’s head for good luck. Our friend was unconscious but we cuffed him anyway. I stole a look at him as I took out my cell. He was bearded, tall, young, heavy-set, hardened by his years on the streets of Port Harcourt.

  I got through to the desk sergeant, told him who I was, where we were, and what we had. Given we had no warrant, I fabricated a little and said he opened the front door and attacked us. It was true, except for moving the bedroom door about twenty feet forward. The suspect, being unconscious, did not dispute my account.

  While I stood over the man, Femi went into the kitchen, got a glass of water, came back, and splashed it onto the suspect’s head. He grunted and slowly came to. I jacked him up and pushed him against the wall. “Who paid you to bomb Okpara?”

  “I want my lawyer.” Now there was a surprise.

  “You don’t have a lawyer.”

  “Well, I want one.”

  “You’ll want your balls in a minute. Shut up.”

  “I’m not telling you a thing. Kiss my fat ass.”

  Instead of kissing his fat ass, I gripped his neck and squeezed. In a moment, he was gasping for breath, cuffed hands flailing uselessly behind him. When I dropped him roughly into a wooden chair, he slumped on his left side and grunted like a wounded animal. As far as I was concerned he was an animal. An animal who tried to kill. An animal who would not talk.

  Femi watched him sit in the chair and cough while I got two cold beers from his fridge. His taste in beer was good. I was impressed. Femi and I had nice cold ones, waiting for our colleagues to arrive. And arrive they did, within about fifteen minutes, four of them.

  I stepped forward to greet them. “Detectives Peterside, Adegbola. Homicide.”

  “Are you here officially?” Sergeant Opuwari, the lead officer, asked as he walked up to us and shook hands.

  “He’s a suspect in the Okpara bombing.”